


a trash bag and a demon

by quadrille



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Banter, Demons, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, During Canon, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Morning After, One Night Stands, Yuletide, Yuletide 2016, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8899519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: She says they never hooked up that night after the restaurant.(They totally did.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



> I was delighted to notice this prompt because I already wanted to write their fade-to-black, so I whipped up this Yuletide Treat. Hope you enjoy! ♥ Circumstances of the night before slightly altered, so technically an AU.

“See, Fake Eleanor and I, we broed down pretty hard last night,” Trevor announces to the entire conference room. “We hooked up.”

She explodes, horrified. “No, we didn’t!”

 _Totally did,_ he mouths at her, and she feels her hands knot into fists with exasperation and annoyance at the lie. Thankfully, the others don’t even bat an eye at his claim and so the negotiation rolls on apace; you don’t believe demons, that’s the whole point of demons. 

  


***

  


But then again, it _would_ explain some things.

When Eleanor gets back to her house after the negotiations, the first thing she notices is a man’s tie half-kicked under the sofa.

The second thing is that one of the clown paintings is missing, lifted clear off its hooks and stolen.

There’s a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka on the kitchen counter, her lipstick on the rim. She pauses in the middle of the room then, staring at it; she thinks she remembers the burning taste as it went down.

Her hand lightly touches her mouth. Her lip is raw, as if she bit it hard.

Or someone else did.

“Ohhh _no_ ,” Eleanor groans, scurrying to the bedroom and clambering up the ledge that she still can’t figure out.

In a hungover fugue this morning—how _dare_ they bring hangovers to the Good Place?—she hadn’t noticed any of these things, and had shuffled right past them to head to the meeting.

But standing and looking over the suspiciously rumpled sheets, seeing where someone had knocked over one of Real Eleanor’s expensive Icelandic driftwood sculptures ( _god drab it_ , now even she’s starting to think of the other woman as Real Eleanor), then… 

She starts to remember. 

  


***

  


> Having seen the awed, besotted way that Chidi and Eleanor stared at each other over the table, she was left jealous and bitter.
> 
> It was late enough that The Good Plates had cleared out, leaving the pair of them shoulder-to-shoulder and drinking together at the bar, getting progressively looser. Trevor kept edging closer, too, and the more surprising part was the fact that Eleanor didn’t mind; she chalked it up to their row of Goldschlager shots (and of _course_ it would be Goldschlager: he’s drawn to shiny things, the tacky and garish).
> 
> Plus, the more she crawls into the bottom of this bottle with him, she becomes irritatingly aware of how handsome he is.
> 
> Because he _is_ attractive. That’s probably part and parcel of the Bad Place, really: that demons are supposed to be tempting and weirdly, skeezily, trashily alluring. Trevor reminds her of a few assholes she’d dated or hooked up with back on Earth, the kind that don’t call you after, or steal a twenty from your wallet on the way out.
> 
> His sleazy self-confidence and complete assurance that they’re going to end up in bed together is, paradoxically, making her think that it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. She’s already headed for the Bad Place, after all, so why not?
> 
> Trevor seems genuinely impressed by her, too, as he rattles off a twisted version of a motivational speech: “You burned every bridge! You cheated on tests. You once said that your greatest accomplishment was inventing a new kind of high school petting.”
> 
> And even more irritatingly, he knows it’s working. An hour later, he announces, “Anyway, take me to whatever martyr’s shack they’ve set you up in,” while picking his teeth and then flicking the toothpick at Janet, who’s manning the hostess podium.
> 
> Eleanor considers trying to look affronted (“Excuse me!”), but she knows herself well enough. The Good Place has a lot of things, but without a proper soulmate of her own, other aspects have gone wholly neglected in all the time she’s been here. And she’s missing it. Really quite a bit, actually.
> 
> So: “Aiight, let’s go,” she sighs, downing another shot and slamming it on the bar.
> 
> Trevor slings a possessive arm over her shoulder as they saunter out, and she shoots an apologetic look over his shoulder, mouthing “Sorry!” at Janet. (The AI doesn’t bat an eye, just beams back.)
> 
> As soon as they’re back at her house, he doesn’t waste any time: the demon is ravenous, and Eleanor is just as hungry. She drags the jacket off his shoulders, quickly unbuttons the dress shirt (Trevor _is_ a snappy dresser, which is also annoying to admit), and recoils once she realises he’s still wearing the Dress Bitch t-shirt underneath. She’s even quicker to strip him of that; maybe because she’s tired of being reminded of one of her worst mistakes, maybe because she wants to see what’s underneath.
> 
> Which Eleanor regrets almost immediately. There are fake tribal tattoos (typical!) curling at his wrists and barbed-wire inked around his forearm, but the one that’s revealed on his chest is something else.
> 
> “Is that a _tattoo_ of a bleeding tiger and the text #WINNING?” Eleanor demands. “Like, Charlie Sheen, hashtag winning?”
> 
> “Well, yeah,” Trevor deadpans back, glancing down and shifting to get a better admiring look of his own torso. “What else would it be?”
> 
> “Oh my god. You are _literally the worst,_ ” she mutters, aghast. “And I say that as someone who isn’t exactly a saint herself!”
> 
> “That’s exactly what I like about you,” he whispers into her ear as he leans closer, breath tickling her neck, teeth nipping her throat. Eleanor shivers, shudders—it’s a mix of both—and tilts her head for better access. “I’m taking you back with me tomorrow.”
> 
> She’s not in the mood to keep arguing about this. There are other things they could be doing. “Shut the fork up and get on the bed.”

  


***

  


The window is broken, too. When and how did _that_ happen? 

  


***

  


> In his eagerness, he tipped over the bedside lamp and it flew too far, cracking the floor-to-ceiling bedroom window.
> 
> “God, it’s going to take new Janet _forever_ to fix that,” Eleanor says, breaking away with a gasp.
> 
> Trevor looks up, shrugs. “It never rains here, so what does it matter? It’s always a very perfect, very boring temperate summer day. You technically don’t even need shelter, sweetheart. Meanwhile, we have a _very_ nice ecosystem in the Bad Place which cycles between acid rain, sulphuric clouds, the occasional napalm mist, and that sort of awkward drizzly grey when it’s too warm to put on a jacket but you think it might rain so you wear the wrong clothes and end up sweaty. That sort of thing.”
> 
> “But that’s not the poi—”
> 
> With a single twitch of his fingers, he expertly unclasps her bra, and soon enough she’s too distracted to think about the property damage.

  


***

  


> He’s utterly and completely selfish in bed, because of _course_ he is, but it’s still enjoyable.
> 
> He bites down hard on her lip; her nails rake his back; he falls asleep as soon as they’re done.

  


***

  


Once she wanders into her bathroom, she finds even more damning evidence: Trevor left the toilet seat up and, by the looks of it, used her toothbrush too.

Peering at herself in the mirror, she finds bruised hickeys marching their way down her neck.

“I forked a demon,” Eleanor says out loud, as if testing the words on her tongue, trying them on for size. Her whole tenure at the Good Place has involved readjusting her identity by bits and pieces, finding out who she really is and who she doesn’t have to be. And this is apparently the latest embarrassing chapter in her life, despite trying to put her trash bag existence behind her.

She sighs.

“Well. Pobody’s nerfect,” she announces to her reflection.

That’s what she’s been learning here, after all.


End file.
